


Northern Lights

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel, Angel True Forms, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angel/Demon Sex, Angelic Grace, Castiel's True Form, Coaxing, Crowley is very persuasive, Demon True Forms, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff, Grace Play, Grace Sex, I shouldn't be allowed near a thesaurus, M/M, Nude Photos, Outdoor Sex, POV Castiel, PWP without Porn, Public Sex, Purple Prose, Romance, True Form Sex, True Forms, Trueform, abstract filth, crowstiel, demon smoke, look at their fucking love connection, pester power, rude weather systems, sexy demon smoke, smoke play, surrealist sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:48:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7469586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filthy trueform romantic domestic bliss because they need more nice things and we need more trueform, am I right? Total PWP, set post-everything in some idealised utopian future where Cas and Crowley get to lay low together and, y’know… lay together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Northern Lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VioletSmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/gifts).



“What are you doing?”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitches upwards into a half-smile but his eyes don’t leave the page he’s focusing on. “What does it look like? Reading.”

“Mmmm.” Crowley’s voice insinuates into his head, resonates like an echo, rich and round.

Castiel’s smile widens, just a fraction. His gaze still on his book. “What are _you_ doing?”

“I believe it's called snuggling. Don't tell on me though, I have a reputation to keep up.” His voice, soft as ashes, straight into Castiel’s consciousness. Castiel’s eyelids lower, lips trembling as he tries not to laugh.

“It’s called interrupting. I’m trying to read. Go away.”

“Darling, you don’t mean that.” Thick smoke flicks at the paper in Cas’s lap. He places a palm, pointedly, splayed on the open pages, holding them still, and Crowley coils around his wrist, soft as hair. Climbs his arm and twines around his shoulders like a python, settling there. Castiel turns his head, his gentle smile impossible to hold back now. “Hello, kitten.”

“Hello, Crowley.” A caress to his cheek. Cas’s eyelashes flutter. “What do you want?”

“Mmmmm. Attention.” Castiel laughs, softly. Slides his thumb between the pages of his book, just as the cover flips smokily shut. He shakes his head. Crowley says, “It’s been forever since I touched you.”

“We had intercourse last night.” Castiel’s teeth graze his lower lip. Crowley ripples, thrumming. “You pleasured me this afternoon with your mouth."

The voice in his head buzzes, drawing a shiver. “Delicious. But not enough. I want you. I want closer.”

The shiver returns, shimmering the length of Castiel’s spine. He closes his eyes. “Where’s your vessel?”

The red cloud around him billows, amusement and a hint of irritation. “Always with the vessel. I could swear you like that sack of blood more than you like me.”

“It’s part of you.” Castiel lifts a hand. Engulfed immediately by smoke, ebbing between his fingers, the lightest tantalising touch. He swallows, thickly. Shifts in his seat. “And you know that’s not true.”

“It’s in the bedroom. Go and see. Leave yours at the door.”

“Crowley, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Glancing around him at their comfortable little sitting room, Castiel watches Crowley move, fluid, drawing impatient figure-of-eights in the air around him. He slinks around Castiel’s neck: a loose, bloody noose. Flips Castiel’s tie out, tendrils of him tickling into his buttoned collar. “Go on, sweetheart - take it off.” That whisper, so suggestive, so promising: Castiel’s fingers are unbuttoning his shirt like a reflex before he thinks and composes himself and halts. Crowley puffs up. Agitated. _Aroused_. Castiel breathes in the throat-catching scent of burning pyres. “Take it _all_ off. I want to see you bare.”

“I want to-”

Crowley says, “No,” at the precise moment that Castiel says, “-but.”

“No ‘buts’. No need for them. Just this. Just us.”

Crimson smoke caresses his cheek, teases his lips... Castiel parts them, head tipping instinctively back. But no rush, no deluge of dry drowning. A tendril licks tenderly between his lips, and Cas can't hold in a moan at the gentle exploration of his mouth that sets his teeth tingling before the smoke puffs out again, reforms, curling around his nape like a steadying hand.

“I can taste you for hours when you do that.” His voice sounds husky. Frayed.

“How do I taste?”

“Corrupt.” He breathes it like an endearment, and Crowley frills in approval. Licks into one ear - Castiel stifles a laugh, waving him away with one impatient hand.

“I want to taste _you_.” There’s an edge to that potent voice. A yearning. He slips from Castiel’s shoulders, deep and soft. Drifts into his lap. Pooled there, he has density, weight: warm as water rolling across Castiel’s crotch. Castiel raises his hips; he can’t help it. Sinks fingers into the thickness of air, combing through it. Crowley purrs. “Come on, angel. Come and play.” Gentle, coaxing, he flicks again at Castiel’s lips. “Don't make me come in there and get you.”

“I can’t,” Castiel repeats, a murmur.

“Give me one good reason.”

“I can’t control myself when I’m with you.”

“I said give me one _good_ reason.”

Castiel bites at his lips, the flesh weak and unsatisfactory between the limits of his teeth. Crowley rubs against the stiffness between Castiel’s thighs, around the palm Castiel has pressed there. It’s not enough; not now. “The house is too small.”

“We’ll go outside.”

“We might be seen.”

“What will they see?” Dark as heart’s blood, he wraps round Castiel’s wrists, insubstantial but strong, tugging him to his feet. Castiel’s book falls with a thud to the carpet; he doesn’t look down. Allows himself be led to the window: the heavy curtains swish back, the sash raises with a sigh. Outside the night is sweet and edged with chill. Highland air. Crowley’s favourite hideout, in the place of his first birth. An infinite skyful of stars that Castiel knows intimately, each and every one. His human eyes can’t see far enough: a spike of frustration peaks inside, pressing outwards against the tiny cage of his chest. Crowley is a darker bloom against the dark, a red so deep it swallows the night; a blossom, a blood-peony… Castiel grips the window ledge with both hands and leans cautiously out. The breeze stirs his hair. Carries Crowley’s silky whisper, “Come out, love. Freedom. Just for a little while. Stretch those wings.”

“Alright.” Crowley flourishes in triumph, bleeding into the night like ink dropped into oil. Carefully Castiel sits, back against the wall beneath the open window. He closes his eyes. He opens his vessel’s mouth and follows Crowley into the dark.

*

He can’t call it coupling. It’s so much more, more than a joining, more than _becoming_. Castiel’s wings spread, pair on pair, an absence of light across the sky, blocking out the moon, his eyes, pair upon pair, bright as the twinkling pricks of stars. Crowley comes to him. Sacred and profane, like magnets repelling and fixing, they sizzle where they touch with light that rips the ether; agonising, exquisite. Crowley clings tight, burning scarlet, stretched translucent, spread for him. His voice is rolling thunder. Castiel’s answer is the screaming tear of the gale, crackling static. Across the bay, lights wink out. The stars look brighter in their absence. Castiel flickers, expanding. Angle upon angle, fanning out in awful tessellation, bright black, black-lit. Huge. Crowley pulses in awe, curls against him, rippling, licking. _Beautiful_ , Castiel says, and the sky cracks, whipping electricity. _Fire in Heaven, in me_.

The rumble of Crowley’s voice is sweeter and more terrible than Heaven’s battle-drums. _Magnificent: my weakness; my strength_. He’s small next to Castiel’s unearthly majesty; the merest puff of smoke, yet he covers him, here, where it matters, like clouds across the moon - every lapping, blushing fold and roll of him illuminated by Castiel’s angelic radiance, pressing against him, into him… Castiel twirls on his axis, shivering blue and white and golden-white in rippling beams, flipping them, weaving over, pressing inside. Swirling, they paint the sky, spiralling sheets merging, searing, stirring into one another. Crowley surges. Rushes over him, billowing, as they spike into each other, flooding and rushing. Castiel catches him, holds him there, stretched thin and shimmering, spread wide across the sky, the rolling push and tug of him, boiling and spilling over, growing, growing, swelling… Lightning crackles sheets across the storm; flashes. The ether holds its breath, a long moment of icy teetering stillness before they burst with a crack, an explosion of light, blue-white and red melting together, fading spent into pinks and drifting lilac, staining the horizon above a sudden deluge of fat, warm rain.

*

The next time Crowley interrupts Castiel when he’s reading, it’s with a mug of coffee, and a folded newspaper plopped unceremoniously into his lap. Castiel peers curiously at Crowley’s pleased little smirk, as he shakes the Caithness Courier open. He covers his eyes with one hand. “Oh. Oh, no.”

“No?” Crowley sounds genuinely a little surprised. The couch dips as he bounces down next to Castiel. Places a warm hand on his thigh. His attention fixed on the colour photograph splashed across the front page is half amused, half something else. When he speaks again, his voice is lower. _Full_. “Look at you. Gorgeous.”

“’Northern Lights dazzle skies over Canisbay’?”

Crowley tilts his head, peering at the photograph. “I am quite dazzling though, aren’t I? That paparazzo’s really captured my best side. Yours, too. We should hang this framed over our bed.”

“This is… how can you find this funny?”

Castiel is frowning, but when he manages to tear himself away from the image in the newspaper, Crowley is looking at him with that peculiar softness of expression he’s come to recognise. “Sorry, love. I know. Shouldn’t tease you.” He holds out a hand. “I’ll stick it in the recycling.” His gaze holds Castiel’s all too knowingly. Castiel narrows his eyes.

“That’s alright.” He slips the outermost pages from the paper and hands the rest back to Crowley, carefully folding the pages with the photograph on top. He slots it between the pages of his book. “I’d like to read the article later.”

“The article?” Crowley quirks a brow.

“Yes. The article.” He holds Crowley’s gaze, daring him to comment and Crowley nods, failing to hide his smile. He kisses Castiel on the forehead. Then he stands and leaves him to his reading.

**Author's Note:**

> View some hardcore angel/demon porn, as shot on location in Caithness here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fVsONlc3OUY ;)
> 
> The front page paparazzi shot is here: http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/02/28/article-2569881-1BE8208500000578-873_964x636.jpg
> 
> Thank you to Smaychel for encouraging me!


End file.
